For the Love of Francis
by alexandriaceleste
Summary: Francis has always been in love with Arthur, but has never stood a chance against Alfred. When Arthur and Alfred end their relationship, however, will he finally be able to win Arthur's affection? Warning: Alcoholism and other adult situations
1. Chapter 1

The doorbell rang as Francis was reading by the fire. He barely heard it due to the downpour that had followed the dreary day and had thought it the clock, which showed the time to be midnight. But the bell had continued to ring, so he went to investigate. Wondering aloud who could be at his door at this hour, he was surprised to see Arthur Kirkland at his doorstep, soaked to the bone. His face was flushed and his large green eyes were bloodshot. He reeked of alcohol.

"Arthur, why are you here?" Francis asked as he shuffled the shivering man into the den. The last time they had spoken personally, things had ended badly and neither of them had apologized yet.

Arthur was silent and his expression blank as Francis found a blanket and started making tea. When he finished, he set the tea in front of Arthur. The Brit, however, made no move to touch it. He simply stared into the liquid, as if it were a portal to his soul.

"Arthur, what's wrong?" Francis said finally, "Are you drunk? Ill?"

He shuffled around the room, adding a log to the fireplace or wiping an imaginary speck of dust from the mantel. Anything to avoid the subject of the last conversation.

"I'm fine, you wanker." He mumbled as he hid his face. "I-I just had nowhere else to go and I was in the neighborhood."

Francis, even in the low light, saw how red Arthur's face was. Tears fell from his eyes with an orange hue that made him seem to cry fire.

"Did you have a fight with Alfred?" The thought hit Francis because, a few weeks earlier, Alfred had called complaining about how inattentive Arthur had been due to work. Actually, Alfred had been talking about leaving him for someone younger and more relaxed. Several names had arisen, but Francis had doubted that Alfred would carry out his plan.

"Don't worry, you two will fix your issues." He added absentmindedly.

"No, we won't." The Britain pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come here. I actually hear that Gilbert's place is nice this time of year." Arthur had stood quickly and was trying to make his way out of the room when Francis grabbed his arm.

The look on Arthur's face made his heart break. This man, a man whom he had both loved and hated for years, was falling apart. His entire world had been turned upside-down and twisted, so twisted that he had to run to his - what was their relationship?- for comfort.

Francis held the man in his arms as they sat on the couch.

"Arthur, I understand heartbreak and I will listen to whatever you must say."

"Francis," Arthur breathed as he grabbed Francis's shirt and clung to him. "Alfred broke it off. He said I was being too possessive. I love him so much, yet he says that he hates me. Is it the age gap? Our personalities? Francis, what do I do? He was my world."

The words came in between fits of sobbing and coughing. Francis held tight to the Brit as he tried in vain to keep the man's heart from falling into pieces. Gradually, the fit subsided and Arthur fell asleep in his arms.

"You are absolutely perfect, Arthur. There is nothing wrong with you. Alfred does not know what he lost." whispered the Frenchman as he kissed Arthur's forehead. Francis draped another blanket around the two of them and turned off the lamp.

He stroked the man's face until he too felt the pull of sleep on his body.

"Arthur, even though we fight and hurt each other more often than not, I cannot help but love you. When you are with him, _tu me manques_. Goodnight, my dearest Arthur. _Je t'adore_." He whispered as his eyes closed and, with the last of his waning strength, he pulled the Britain close to his chest and was quickly consumed by dreams of days where he could freely embrace him.


	2. Chapter 2

Francis was awoken by cursing and a loud crash. Opening his eyes, he realized first that Arthur was no longer in his arms and second that the Brit was now on the floor, soaked in tea from the previous night.

The Brit clutched his head. "What the bloody hell happened?" He cursed as he tried to stand. Miserably failing due to his crippling pain, he found comfort in the plush chair by the fireplace. Still, he occasionally whimpered from the light entering the room from the tall windows.

Francis gathered the teacup and set a towel on the rug to dry the liquid. Putting the tea kettle on the stove, he started closing the curtains in the den. Finally, he sat beside Arthur and draped a blanket over him.

"How's the hangover, _mon ami_?" He whispered.

"Where the hell am I? Frog, if you did anything, I'll..." The Brit's raised voice seemed to hurt his own ears, so he quieted and tried to focus himself by examining an imaginary piece of lint on his rumpled black shirt.

"I did nothing to you, Arthur. You were drunk and upset - you are such a terrible drunk- and I gave you a place to sleep." Francis was accustomed to the sober abuses, but they still hurt whenever Arthur was in one of his moods. He would fire his words at anyone who tried to get close to him, to understand him.

Francis heard the tea kettle whistle and he excused himself to go prepare the tea. He removed the pot from the stove and poured the scalding water into a waiting mug. He added milk and a lump of sugar: Arthur's tea. He added some honey to help with the headache and let the mug cool.

Putting away everything, he accidentally brushed his hand against the scorching kettle. He ran his other hand through his blond hair and muttered French curses.

Tears formed in his eyes, but he remained silent. If he made any noise, Arthur would come to investigate and if Arthur saw him crying and cursing, if Arthur made any move of caring, after last night, Francis would lose any remaining control to stay away from Arthur, whether his feelings were returned or not.

Yes, he thought to himself, I would much rather silently take the pain and have him be happy. As long as I can remain by his side, whether as a lover or a friend, I am content, just as long as Arthur is happy.

He sighed as he slipped a glove over his blistering hand - he didn't want Arthur to see his wound - and carried the tea into the other room, just as the front doorbell started ringing.


	3. Chapter 3

"Thank you," said the Brit as Francis sat the tea in front of him.

"Try not to spill this on the rug." He grinned as he tried to organize things.

He took the tea-soaked towel and deposited it in the laundry basket as he went to answer the door. The clock read ten in the morning, so anyone could be at the door. With the acid churning in his stomach, however, Francis knew that the one face he hadn't wanted to see was at the door.

"Yo, French Fry, have you seen Arthur? He ran away last night and was acting really moody. He hasn't answered any of my calls and I've checked everywhere else." Alfred was standing on his doorstep, looking unconcerned for the welfare of his (former?) lover.

Francis considered the possibility of lying, saying to check elsewhere, but if he had been in the same situation, looking for Arthur after an argument, he would have been worried sick.

"He came here last night. He was drunk, so I let him sleep on my couch. He's in the den. Don't be too loud; he has a terrible hangover." Francis sighed as the American let himself into the home and strutted to the den.

He let them have their time alone. Even though Arthur had said that Alfred had ended the relationship, Francis knew that Arthur tended to jump to conclusions during arguments and that Alfred could be totally oblivious and say the wrong thing very easily. Yes, Francis had not wanted to tell his feelings to the sober, awake Arthur without ensuring that his relationship with the American was done for the foreseeable future. He had known, somewhere, deep in his heart, that Alfred would come running to try and fix the relationship.

He went into the kitchen to nurse his wound. The blisters on his palm were small, but seared with pain as soon as the air hit them. Francis applied burn ointment and bandaged his hand the best he could.

Absentmindedly, he began humming a tune. Where had he learned it? It seemed so familiar. Then the words followed the tune.

_La Pucelle, La Pucelle d'Orléans_

_Elle a attrappé par les flammes._

_Ma Pucelle, mon enfant,_

_Elle ne vive plus maintenant._

_Her funeral._

Why did his thoughts always turn to _her_? Was it guilt? Or was it something else? Joan, he had loved her, well, he had thought he had loved her. Well, until he had realized that he loved Arthur more.

Joan had been his longest relationship, but then she had suddenly died in a fiery crash while looking for Francis after a fight. She had been leaving England's house when her car suddenly exploded. He had realized at her funeral that he was numb, that she had only been a distraction from his feelings for England. He still considered her, however, to have been the closest person whom he could have ever trusted. He still thought of her more frequently than he would ever admit.

Is this how she felt, he thought to himself, with her searing flesh and her broken heart? Had she thought of him? Had she loved him when he hadn't returned her feelings? If only he had lied, told her that he loved her, she might have lived, started a family.

But none of it mattered. She was gone and he spent many nights in this same circular argument that only led to him repeating, in a drunken stupor, "if only I had loved her".

He sighed to himself as he pulled out a bottle of red wine and a wine glass. He winced at the pain in his hand as he poured a glass. He hated the taste as he downed the first mouthful. Yes, the wine was cheap and bitter and horrible, but it numbed his mind and his pain and his guilt and his love for Arthur.

He poured another glass as he heard them laughing. Down it went.

He poured another glass as he heard them walking towards the door, as they called to say farewell. Down it went.

He poured another glass as the door closed and another as the car started outside. Down they went.

The bottle was almost empty. He poured the last remaining drops into the glass and fell to his knees as he stared at it. The wine wasn't working. An ache in his chest had formed and wouldn't leave.

Staring at the ceiling, he prayed to his sadistic God that Joan wasn't watching him and prayed that the pain would stop.

He downed the glass and cursed himself.

And it was only eleven in the morning.


End file.
